SUNK

by Fleur Hitchcock

I turn to see what Jacob’s looking at.

  Three angry deckchairs are stumbling over the sand, mashing the sculptures and sending people running. Alongside them, a small parasol charges at a man and smacks him on his backside. It tires of hitting him and moves on quickly to a woman and does the same to her.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, watching the beautiful sand house mangled by a furious windbreak. It dances and stamps and thwacks until the house lies pulverised, then it paces over to a carefully constructed miniature helter-skelter and dashes it to the ground. Briefly occupied by the destruction of the remaining fairground it’s wrestled to the ground by a family and trussed with a yellow bikini. The deckchairs, on the other hand, are now encircling a group of screaming toddlers, slowing down and looking altogether more menacing.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asks Eric, looking as if he’d quite like to run from the beach too.

  ‘We’re goin’ to mash ’em,’ says Jacob, struggling to his feet.

  ‘With what?’ shouts Eric at Jacob’s back.

  But Jacob doesn’t hear. He’s charging directly at the deckchairs. I catch up easily and try to get a sight on them, but I can’t shrink the deckchairs without shrinking the children. ‘Jacob!’ I shout. ‘Be careful, the children.’

  ‘Help!’ From behind us comes a voice that sounds awfully like Eric’s. ‘Tom! Jacob!’

  My legs keep running but I turn my top half. Eric’s pinned to the ground by a deckchair. All I can see are arms and legs. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ I shout to him, almost overtaking Jacob.

  A flash of fire leaps from the ends of Jacob’s fingers – I don’t think anyone else sees; I think they’re too busy running from the chairs – and strikes the nearest deckchair. It twists, and if a deckchair can glare, it glares at Jacob. As if they could communicate with each other, the deckchairs leave the toddlers and form a line in front of us.

  I raise my hand – this time I can shrink them. I form an O with my thumb and forefinger.

  Click.

  At exactly the same moment Jacob unleashes a cloud of sparks that shower the chairs. I look into my hand immediately after the shrinking to find a collection of tiny writhing burning things while around us the beach falls suddenly calm, filled with nothing more than a puff of smoke and some confused people.

  ‘HELP!’ comes a strangled cry. I stuff the chairs in my pocket and we reach Eric at the same time as Albert Fogg, who grabs the chair and wrenches it off Eric’s chest. It takes all four of us to pin it to the ground and it doesn’t go down easily, snapping its wooden jaws and trapping our fingers.

  ‘Ow!’ says Jacob, his eyes flashing red as he emits a random cloud of sparks.

  ‘Jacob,’ I hiss. ‘Don’t, not here.’

  We stand on the four corners of the chair while it squirms beneath our feet.

  ‘Well,’ says Albert Fogg, taking his battered blue hat from his battered brown head and wiping his brow. ‘That was one hell of a gust of wind.’

  ‘Wind?’ says Jacob. ‘Wind?!’

  ‘You can get some shocking squalls along here – fair take your breath away – and those deckchairs present a big face to the wind.’

  Beneath our feet, the deckchair quivers. Mr Fogg leans over and slips a leather belt round the wooden structure and tips it on its side. ‘Anyway, thanks, lads,’ he says, and he wanders off along the beach dragging the chair behind him.

  I reach into my pocket to have a look at the tiny singed chairs. They’re lying flat, folded and peaceful.

  ‘Have you got a crisp packet or something, Jacob?’ I ask. ‘For these.’

  Jacob searches his pockets while Eric stares at my catch. Jacob hands me an empty bag of Super Cheese Crunch Puffs and I pop the deckchairs inside.

  We sit back on the sand next to our mound, which has survived intact. Even Barbie’s hair is untroubled.

  The arty couple next to us return and fiddle with their fibreglass, which was flattened by the deckchair furore, arranging it completely differently but looking quite pleased with the result.

  We sit in silence, staring, thinking, listening.

  ‘Gosh, what a shock that wind was,’ says a woman.

  ‘A gale – all of a sudden,’ replies her husband.

  ‘I’d call that a storm,’ says another.

  ‘Always thought this was such a sheltered place – perhaps we should try Bywater Regis next time, they do jet skis there too.’

  ‘Oh yes, Bywater Regis is very nice. Faces south too.’

  Some people pack up their things and leave the beach. Others rebuild their sculptures and sit nervously staring out to sea.

  ‘There’s no way that was a gust of wind,’ I say in the end.

  ‘No, well, we know it wasn’t, because of old clever clogs here,’ says Jacob.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but what I’m saying is that Mr Fogg can’t possibly think it was either. He’s already had three incidents on the beach. He must have seen them all.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Eric. ‘Perhaps we need to talk to him – subtly, you know.’

  And then the ice-cream van arrives.

  12

  An Extra-large, Double Chocolate Golden Syrup Sponge Ninety-nine, Please

  De-ding-de-ding-ding.

  ‘Free ice cream for everyone! Come and get it!’ blares the horn on the top of the van.

  ‘Really?’ says Jacob, springing to his feet.

  We wander over to see what’s happening. The mayor is inside the ice-cream van handing out lollies and cornets. Beside him, Albert Fogg is sweating and smiling and looking nervous. ‘Roll up, roll up,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘Get your free ice cream, best ice cream in the Bywater area – far better than Bywater Regis.’

  Some of the families who had packed up to leave the beach trail back and loiter by the van.

  ‘Can I have one, Mum?’ says a little girl.

  ‘They’ll be free all day,’ says the mayor, handing down a cone dotted with sprinkles and raspberry sauce. ‘To make up for the wind.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ says the mother. ‘I’ll have one too.’ She drops the beach rugs on the ground and takes an ice cream from the mayor, licking chocolate sauce from her fingers.

  Jacob takes an extra-large, double chocolate golden syrup sponge ninety-nine and eats it in two bites.

  Eric and I sit on the sea wall. Jacob joins us and we all have to move up to make room for his massive bottom.

  ‘No chance of talking to Albert Fogg now,’ says Eric. ‘Far too public.’

  We sit in silence, listening to seagulls and watching families slowly returning to the beach.

  ‘It’s both of them, isn’t it?’ I say eventually.

  ‘The mayor too?’ asks Eric.

  ‘Yup,’ I reply, taking out the crisp packet and staring in at the three deckchairs. ‘They wouldn’t make all this effort if they believed the wind story.’

  ‘So why are they covering up?’ he asks.

  I wave my arm to show all the families on the beach and the others wandering up and down the promenade. ‘Because of business,’ I say. ‘If Bywater-by-Sea gets a reputation for crazed deckchairs the families won’t come. They won’t go to the cafés or stay in the hotels or buy things from the shops. Even the model village will lose out.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Eric, obviously thinking about money for the first time in his life. ‘I get it. But …’ He furrows his brow. ‘If they let it go on like this, someone’s going to get seriously hurt.’

  ‘They’re going to need a bigger ice-cream van,’ says Jacob, licking his lips.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say.

  Much to my surprise, Mum hands me a box of jelly fruits when I get home.

  ‘You won Sculpture on the Beach,’ she says. ‘I knew you were arty. I can see it now: your first exhibition at the Tate. I’ve got your whole career mapped out.’

  ‘How?’ I say. ‘Most of the sculptures got mashed by … the wind. There can’t have been many left to judge.’

  ‘Gimme,’ says Tilly, marching
into the kitchen and spying my jelly fruits. ‘I’ll have those.’

  ‘But you don’t even like jelly fruits,’ I say, clutching them to my chest.

  ‘Nor do you,’ she says.

  ‘But they’re mine,’ I say.

  ‘And they left this comment about your work,’ says Mum, ignoring Tilly. ‘Where is it? Oh yes. A timeless modernist piece, so witty and enlightening. The juxtaposition of consumerist society with the earthy fundamentalism of the sand made a profound commentary. Bravo.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I ask, still clutching my jelly fruits.

  She reads it again. ‘No idea,’ she says. ‘But it means you’re doing Art Club.’

  ‘He can’t do Art Club,’ says Tilly. ‘I do Art Club and I don’t want him there.’

  I didn’t want her at Field Craft, but she came – though I don’t think I actually said anything to Mum.

  Mum pulls a tight smile and faces Tilly. She doesn’t even say anything.

  Tilly stares. Her face crumples and spouting tears she runs from the kitchen. ‘Nobody loves me,’ she wails, racing up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door.

  In my room I empty the three miniature deckchairs out of the bag and examine them. They’re really cute. So cute I’d love to show them to Tilly, because I actually feel quite sorry for her. Never in her whole life have people stood up to her, but now, for the first time, Mum is taking a stand. I’ve always felt very alone in my wars with Tilly. She seemed to be able to bend Mum and Dad round her little finger and it must be a shock for it to end.

  Actually, perhaps I don’t feel that sorry.

  I look around for something really secure for the deckchairs and dig out a tin of pirates. Emptying the pirates on the floor I jam the deckchairs in and the lid on and then tie my belt round it. I’ll be fine as long as I remember to check them regularly.

  I open the pack of jelly fruits and stick one in my mouth. It’s not very nice and I’m chewing and swallowing just as Tilly appears in the doorway, no sign of tears any more. She sticks her hand out. ‘Can I have one?’ she demands.

  ‘Say please,’ I say.

  ‘Please may I have one?’ she says, her voice filled with sugar.

  I hold the box out.

  ‘Which one’s your favourite?’ she asks.

  I look. They’re all disgusting but probably the blackcurrant. I point at a purple sweet.

  ‘Right,’ she says, picking it from the box, sticking it in her mouth and then almost immediately spitting it out of the window.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ I ask. ‘That was the only one I liked.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Tilly, leaving the room.

  I don’t feel even a little scrap sorry for her any more.

  13

  Potato Clock

  On the TV news, they say wind.

  There’s a blurry video of the deckchairs near the toddlers with shouting and juddering camera angles. The newscaster is talking over the top of the pictures: ‘… shocking holidaymakers and surprising Albert Fogg, longshoreman …’ There’s a shot of Albert Fogg looking hot and bothered. ‘… and how did it end? This is from eyewitness reports. It seems that the deckchairs blew into a handily placed beach barbecue because they, and I quote, “appeared to vanish in a cloud of sparks”.’

  Grandma raises her eyebrow and continues to knit. She’s making what appears to be a church cosy for the model village – made of recycled plastic string from the beach. ‘Anything to do with you, Tom?’

  I shake my head. I could tell her, but then I’d have to say I shrank the deckchairs in full view of hundreds of holidaymakers and that wouldn’t go down at all well.

  Next, after a brief history of the town, the camera settles on the mayor. He’s also looking hot and bothered. The interviewer sticks a microphone under his nose. ‘What do you make of today’s events?’

  The mayor beams into the camera lens. ‘It’s just a storm in a teacup so to speak.’ He smiles again. ‘Nothing to alarm anyone, no harm done, nothing more than a freak wind at the wrong time of year and, for those who do decide to holiday in Bywater-by-Sea, there’s free ice cream – yum yum.’

  ‘So the free ice cream doesn’t have anything to do with your forthcoming mayoral election?’

  ‘No,’ says the mayor. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It does,’ says a familiar voice off camera. ‘It has everything to do with it. Admit it – you’re buying them.’

  Oh no. Mum.

  The camera swings to Mum’s face. She’s holding Tilly’s hand very tightly as it happens.

  ‘And you are …?’ asks the interviewer.

  Mum kicks Tilly and a snarling Tilly holds up one of Mum’s posters, showing it for a nanosecond before the camera judders off to one side. ‘Yes – I’m Sarah Perks, running on a ticket of transparency …’

  The interviewer makes embarrassed throat-scraping sounds. So does the mayor and the camera swings round to the beach again, which looks peaceful and empty.

  ‘Gosh,’ says Grandma, switching over to the wrestling.

  ‘Tom,’ says Dad, appearing beside me. ‘Bored?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’ve got one or two things – pieces of homework – in my bedroom,’ I lie.

  ‘Oh, they won’t take you long. I thought you might like to make a potato clock with me,’ says Dad.

  ‘Seriously?’ I ask.

  But Dad trundles off into the kitchen anyway. ‘Can we try a potato and a grapefruit?’ he shouts to no one in particular. ‘I just want to see if it works before I show it to the littlies.’

  14

  Best Sunday EVER

  On Sunday, nothing happens.

  Nothing on the beach or at home.

  Nothing, unless you count Tilly going into high-velocity sulk mode.

  She doesn’t eat.

  Doesn’t sing.

  Doesn’t laugh.

  Doesn’t speak.

  Doesn’t cry.

  It’s great. Lovely. The best Sunday EVER!

  15

  No One Calls a Teacher by their First Name

  Monday tries to make up for it.

  ‘Parents’ night tonight,’ says Dad, picking up a purple-spotted backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘I thought I’d get down with the kids – like hip with the groove, YO?’ says Dad, doing something only people under fifteen should do with their hands.

  Tilly flatly refuses to catch the bus.

  ‘But you have to go to school,’ says Mum.

  Tilly crosses her arms and purses her mouth into a fine pout.

  ‘You’ll have to walk,’ says Grandma.

  In the end, Mum drives her, while I sit on the bus with Dad thinking dark thoughts, especially about parents’ evening.

  ‘I could not come,’ I say to Eric. ‘I could let them come in on their own. Wander about, embarrass Tilly, and I could be at home.’

  ‘My dad’ll come,’ says Eric. ‘I can’t imagine your parents will be worse than that.’

  But they are. Much worse.

  First, we arrive early. Mum and Dad sit on the row of tiny chairs that have been placed in the middle of the hall and wait like expectant cartoon rabbits, smiling and keen and awful. Dad’s so tall his knees are up by his chin.

  I sit at the other end of the row, pretending to be unrelated. Tilly has hidden in the toilets. I suspect she might have to spend the whole evening there.

  ‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Perks. Hello, Tom,’ says Mrs Mawes, sitting at her table on the side. ‘Well done for winning Sculpture on the Beach. Top work.’

  I blush.

  ‘He’s so clever,’ says Mum. ‘They said it made a profound commentary.’

  Mrs Mawes gives me a patronising smile.

  ‘Oh, and can I give you one of these?’ says Mum, brandishing a dayglo flyer with SARAH PERKS FOR MAYOR printed on it.

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Mawes looks surprised. ‘Thank you.’
<
br />   As she stuffs it under her desk, Eric and his dad stroll in.

  ‘Er, um, Mrs Mawes?’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Can I give you one of these?’ He hands her a badly photocopied sheet with SMALL IS GENERALLY NICER scrawled on it in different coloured felt-tips.

  Mrs Mawes reddens and puts it under her desk with mum’s flyer.

  I hope there aren’t any other parents running for mayor.

  Other teachers arrive and the hall begins to hum with activity. Parents flow in and out, including Jacob’s, who manage to look more embarrassed than most of the kids.

  Dad makes tea for people and rattles around the hall with a trolley and an apron. I stare at the floor and try to imagine myself somewhere else – like on the beach, in the sunshine, without any deckchairs.

  ‘Mind out, Tom. Stop daydreaming – you could help me with these.’ Mum springs up and hands out more of her flyers. Eric’s dad also hands out flyers but he’s more polite and less aggressive. Eric doesn’t seem to mind, but I just want to sink through a hole in the ground.

  ‘So the thing is,’ says Mum loudly to Emily Smee’s mum. ‘I’m thinking honesty, transparency, no more corruption, and this whole beach thing – it’s definitely a cover-up.’

  Eric’s head snaps up, so does mine.

  ‘Oh?’ says Emily Smee’s mum. ‘Covering up what?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know,’ says Mum. ‘I’d love to get to the bottom of it – I mean, free ice cream? And wind? Could wind really cause all that rumpus?’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Sanjeev’s dad from behind us. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘It’s the veil,’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Too thin here. Things happen.’

  ‘Funny things do happen,’ says Dad, parking his trolley next to us and sitting down. ‘Remember that hole in our roof? I’ve always thought that was very odd, and that thing that happened to Tilly’s birthday cake.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Mum. ‘And all the ghostly things that happened before they built the theme park.’